


A Heart's Beginning

by KayleighH2203



Series: Heart one-shots and ficlets [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Origin of Morag's Family, The Heart Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:23:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleighH2203/pseuds/KayleighH2203
Summary: Long before the events of An Unwilling Heart, in the Second Age, Numenor was at its height. But now Ar-Pharazon is making deals with the Dark Lord Sauron, and Morag's family line is about to begin.
Series: Heart one-shots and ficlets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1156508
Kudos: 2





	A Heart's Beginning

A Heart’s Beginning.

“Ráca! Ráca! Wake up!”

Ráca jumped with a start and scrambled from the bed, running to the window and throwing open the shutters. Her heart plummeted when she saw the golden sails on the horizon. Their time was up. Ar-Pharazôn had returned.  
“Ráca!” her grandmother’s voice had Ráca run for the stairs, not even stopping to put on her shoes. Hurrying down the stone stairs, she found her grandmother waiting for her.  
“You must go and warn your father immediately, there isn’t any time to spare,” the old woman said, bundling her out the door. Ráca ran along the cobbled streets that slowly climbed the hill to the King’s House. The other people of Armenelos went about their day, paying little to no mind to the young girl running in the opposite direction.  
“He had returned!” the people cried, “Ar-Pharazôn the Golden has come back!”

Their words spurred Ráca onwards, her lungs burning but she did not allow herself to slow down. She couldn’t; there was too much at stake.

As she approached the King’s House, she finally slowed. She didn’t recognise the guards standing at the door.  
“Ráca,” a voice hissed. To her left, she saw Sorno, the kitchen boy beckoning to her. She hurried to him before the guards took note of her and he led her around the side of the King’s House.

“I saw the sails,” Sorno hissed as they slipped in through the kitchen door, “Is it really him?” Ráca nodded.  
“Yes, he has returned,” she said as they weaved in between the cooks.  
“The Queen must be told immediately,” Sorno said, “Most of the guards are breaking their fast, if you move quickly, you will reach her unseen.”  
“Thank you, Sorno,” she said, “May the Valar forgive us.”  
“Ráca….”  
“Yes?”  
“My mother has booked me on the next ship to Middle-Earth,” Sorno explained as they reached the door on the opposite side, “If...If you would come...”  
“I cannot leave _tatanya_ ,” Ráca said gently, “He needs me here.”  
“Then this is farewell,” Sorno sighed, “I will miss you, Ráca.”  
“And I will miss you Sorno.”  
“Go! Go quickly!”

Ráca opened the door, peering out. No guards in sight. She slipped through and began hurrying down the corridor to the western wing. Sorno was right, most of the guards were absent, breaking their fast no doubt. Those she did see were friends of her father, they were Faithful and would not hinder her in her quest. Soon she reached the Queen’s quarters. The guards at the door gave her a curt nod before opening the door just enough for her to pass through. The marble floors were cool and soothed her aching feet as she padded along the corridor to a room she recognised, the Queen’s parlour. Her father stood just inside the door, speaking to the Queen in a soft voice but came to a sudden halt when Ráca entered.  
“No...” he breathed.  
“Sorry _atto_ ,” she said, “But he has returned.”  
“It is as I feared,” the Queen said as she looked out the window.

Tar-Míriel’s beauty always struck Ráca who had never known her own mother, and out of respect, Ráca never called her Zimraphel.  
“Míriel...” her father started as he approached the Queen.  
“Voron, we knew this day would come,” Míriel said, “We knew my husband would return eventually.” She turned from the window, clutching her infant son in her arms.  
“We knew that one day, we would have to say goodbye to him,” she continued. Voron closed the gap between them, his brow resting against hers as one hand rested on the head of their son.  
“We cannot give him life if he stays here, but we can give him a name, and passage to safety,” Míriel sighed, “So we name him. And then we send him away.”  
“You should name him,” Voron said.  
“Altamarto,” she whispered in reply, “Great fortune.”  
“If Pharazôn learns of him...”  
“He will be hunted for the rest of his life,” Míriel said, “So his name does not leave this room. We three, his mother, his father, his sister, we alone shall know his name.”  
“We have no time to waste,” Voron said softly, “We must go. Ráca, fetch the baskets. Pharazôn will land soon.”

Ráca hurried to the Queen’s bed chamber and retrieved two baskets from beneath the bed. She was just wriggling her way out when two of the guards burst into the room, seizing the cradle and blankets from the side of the bed and destroying them. The cradle was smashed to pieces and thrown onto the fire, the blankets ripped into shreds and joined the cradle. Within moments, all evidence of an infant was gone from the room, leaving Ráca alone, clutching the baskets. For the first time, she felt afraid. If Ar-Pharazôn discovered what had happened, if he found out about the Queen’s affair with her guard...Míriel, Voron and Ráca would all be put to the sword in the name of Melkor. And then he would turn his attention to Altamarto, a boy who threatened his right to rule over the Numenoreans.  
“Ráca!” her father’s voice called her and she ran from the room. Back through the Queen’s parlour, there were steps leading from the balcony down into the gardens. Ráca raced down them, quickly catching up with her father and the Queen. A horn blew in the distance. They were almost out of time.  
“Quickly, Ráca,” the Queen said, “Give me the basket.” Ráca handed one over and the Queen waded into the small stream that ran through the gardens. Voron followed and held the basket still as the Queen laid Altamarto within it, carefully removing the blanket that bore the emblem of the Royal family, lest any soldiers discover the boy.  
“Forgive me, my son,” she sobbed, “I wish I could give you more, but I cannot, save your name. I wish great fortune for you Altamarto, may the Valar protect you better than I can. I pray we meet again one day.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the infant’s head as Voron gestured for Ráca to hand him the other basket. Both baskets were lined with tar to make them waterproof for the stream was the only safe way out of the palace where neither Pharazôn nor his loyal followers would see the infant. Altamarto was covered with the second basket and it was secured with thin leather ties.  
“Your sister will watch over you til you reach the sea,” Míriel whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek as she released her hold on the basket.

Ráca knew her part in this. She was to follow the basket until the stream met the sea, there a ship was waiting to take him to Middle-Earth with the Lord of Andúnië, the only one the Queen had entrusted with her secret. Not hesitating for a moment, Ráca began to follow the basket, only glancing back once before the stream bent out of sight and out of the grounds of the King’s House. The Queen remained stood in the stream, watching but her father had retreated to the shore. The King, Ar-Pharazôn, approached, wading into the water and making his wife look at him. Briefly Ráca saw the Queen’s fists clench as her gaze fell to his sword. If only, she thought, then maybe their people would be free from the Darkness.

*

Ráca followed the stream as it twisted and turned it’s way down the hill. Occasionally she had to slow if any of the King’s Men passed by. To them, it looked as though she were merely taking a walk along the stream. Mercifully, the basket went unnoticed and Altamarto slept on. Soon they reached the shore where a tall figure dressed in black waited. Ráca hesitated for a moment until he turned, revealing his fair face.  
“Ráca,” he said in greeting.  
“Lord Amandil,” she replied. The basket floated to the lord’s feet.  
“Will he be safe?” Ráca asked.  
“You have my assurance, your brother will be safe,” Amandil said, lifting the basket.  
“He...he will need a name,” Ráca said, her heart seizing a little as she realised this would be the last time she saw him.  
“And he will have one,” Amandil reassured her, “You have done well.” Ráca nodded and walked towards him, placing one hand on the baskets.  
“Goodbye, baby brother,” she whispered, not daring to speak his given name.

Amandil stepped back and turned away, not allowing himself to pause, not even when he heard the young girl’s heartbroken weeping. He could only imagine how the Queen felt. A short walk from the stream, his ship awaited him at the dock. This was his last trip to Middle-Earth. After delivering the boy to safety, he would return to Númenor, and await the day he could put an end to Pharazôn’s madness. Aboard the ship, his son Elendil awaited him and followed him beneath deck, watching as Amandil untied the leather strips and removed the upper basket.  
“Did you find a wet nurse?” Amandil asked.  
“Yes, father,” Elendil replied, “A cook from the King’s House bartered passage for herself and her son in return for the child’s care. Does he have a name?”  
“Not one we shall ever hear,” Amandil said gently as he lifted the boy, “Nor will his mother ever hear the name we give him. It must be this way, it is the only way for him to be safe.”  
“So what name shall we bestow on him?”  
“Vantar,” said Amandil quietly, "The walking King."

*

9 years later….

The ground shook beneath Míriel’s feet as she ran. This was it, she could feel it, the end of her people. She ran with them, desperately trying to reach the slopes of Meneltarma, to plead for all their lives. A scream erupted above all the others. A great wave was coming to engulf the island of Númenor and drag it beneath the waves. It was too later. Eru has passed judgement on her people, and found them sorely lacking. Her pace slowed. Nothing could save them now. She looked eastwards. Somewhere out there, her son was safe, hidden, free to live the long life given to the descendants of Elros.  
“Míriel!” a voice called out. She looked around and saw Voron fighting against the crowd to get to her.  
“Voron!” she cried, hurrying towards him. She had not seen him in six years, Pharazôn had become suspicious and exiled Voron from Armenelos.  
“Míriel!” he called again as they drew closer.

Breaking free from the fleeing crowd, Voron emerged before her and Míriel felt her heart break. She wondered if this is what their son would look like as a man, a man she would never see.  
“My love,” Voron spoke aloud the words he had never been able to say before as she rushed into his arms. He drew his daughter, Ráca, in to his side as well.  
“Our son is safe, that is the best we could do for him,” Voron agreed, “I….I should have put Ráca on the ship too.”  
“No!” Ráca protested, “I would not go!”  
“I had hoped it would not come to this,” he said, looking up as flames seemed to engulf the sky.  
“As did I,” she replied, “But there is no where I would rather be than by your side and Ráca’s as we meet our doom. I love you, Voron.”  
“And I love you, Tar-Míriel, my Queen.”

And as the great wave crashed over the island, dragging Númenor beneath the surface, Voron held her in his arms, one last time.

*

2910 Third Age

Morag stood on the cliff, staring out at the ocean.  
“So this is the place?” she asked, “Where our family started?”  
“Yes,” said Isrid, standing beside her, “This is where Vantar came to Middle-Earth, and when Númenor fell because of the Darkness, this is where he made his pledge. To right the wrongs our ancestors made, to fight for the free peoples of Middle-Earth.”  
“We’re descended from Kings.”  
“Yes, and we shall live as paupers until the Valar see fit to forgive us for Pharazôn’s folly.”  
“I get the feeling that’s going to take a long time.”  
“Three thousand and thirty two years and counting.”


End file.
